


Yours

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Recovering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: Sometimes, when it’s bad, Sam starts counting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for discussion of PTSD symptoms, including paranoia and vivid flashbacks.

Sometimes, when it’s bad, Sam starts counting.

He doesn’t tell Steve what he’s doing, doesn’t act any differently around Steve than he would any other time. Steve doesn’t need to know that he’s suffering, that he got up three times last night to check the locks and only relaxed again when Steve sighed his name in his sleep.

That was one.

The toaster pops, making him jump, but Steve doesn’t see, he’s got his back turned as he fries their eggs and chatters on about maybe going to see the sights of whatever backwoods town they’re staying in today.

“Nat said there’s a big ball of twine nearby, Sam,” he says, and that’s two. Sam can breathe a little better. “She said it was one of the reasons we should stay at this safe house. Plus, the kitchen.”

“Can’t argue that,” Sam replies, his voice not shaking at all.

They start to eat, Steve cuts into his egg with the side of his fork, and the oozing yellow looks too much like pus. Sam’s gonna be sick, he pushes away from the table, and Steve looks up.

“Sam?”

That’s three. Sam stops, almost smiles, focuses on the blue of Steve’s shirt as he opens his mouth, shoves food down his throat without tasting it.

He showers after breakfast, and almost falls asleep on his feet before he jerks awake and knocks Steve’s bottle of shampoo to the ground. There’s a tap on the door then, and Sam freezes, his skin cold despite the hot water— they’re coming for him, gonna take him back, drag him away, lock him up under the ocean again, and he’ll never see anyone he loves, not Steve, not his mama, his sister, brother, or nephew.

“—am, Sam, Sam.”

That’s six, maybe more. He comes back, and Steve’s with him, his blue shirt soaked black because he got Sam out of the water, out of prison, and now they’re shivering together on the bath mat in a house that everyone keeps telling him is safe.

“Come on, Sam, let’s go back to bed,” Steve says.

“Seven,” Sam replies, and whatever happened to not saying anything, to not letting Steve know that he wasn’t good, that he couldn’t cope? Sam can’t remember.

Steve frowns, but wraps him in a huge fluffy towel before he strips, tosses his wet clothes into the tub, and grabs another towel for himself. He opens his arms, pulls Sam close and holds him under two layers of warmth, trapping their body heat between them.

“You’re shaking,” Steve murmurs.

“I know,” Sam says, because he can see it now, how foolish he was to think that he was okay, that Steve would fall for it when even he wouldn’t. “Steve, I—”

Steve shushes him and strokes his back. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re safe, Sam, I’m here.”

“Eight times,” Sam mumbles. “You said my name.”

Steve pauses, then continues, his hand travelling all the way down to Sam’s ass before it makes its way back up. Sam sags into the touch. Steve’s supporting all his weight now.

“Heavy,” says Sam, trying to move. “Sorry, I—”

“Sam,” Steve says again, into Sam’s neck. “I can take it, Sam.”

“Nine,” Sam whispers back. “Ten.”

Steve’s mouth keeps moving, mouthing his name against his body. Sam loses count for a while after he gets to sixteen, but he’s grounded in Steve’s touch now, Steve’s presence, Steve’s body pressed to his. Sam’s breath is coming quicker, and the chills are back, but it really is okay because Steve’s here, Steve loves him, PTSD and all. He unravels himself enough that he can find Steve under the fabric, touch him with nothing between them, just hot, slick skin.

Sam’s hips are moving, his cock is hard by the time he counts out twenty-one repetitions of his name, and when he gets to thirty, Steve’s big hand is wrapped around him, stroking Sam strong and steady. The hot pressure feels good and right, while Steve’s lips and tongue distract him just enough to keep the paranoia at bay, leaving shivery trails along Sam’s shoulder, up the shell of his ear and back down. It's silent now, but Sam can still feel Steve saying his name as the pleasure builds, as his body tightens into one bright spot of heat between them that’s getting denser, heavier— a star collapsing.

Steve kisses him then, and Sam sobs because it’s so good, and when Steve pulls back—

“Sam, let go,” he says against Sam’s lips. “I’ll catch you.”

—he comes. The wave moves through him slow and dense, a weight that settles in his thighs, almost painful until it lifts at last, and Sam breathes easier than he has in hours.

And then the tears come, their wet heat a blessed relief after all this time. They run down his cheeks, drip off his chin to land somewhere on the linoleum floor until he’s thirsty with their loss, until Steve’s shushing him again, still holding on, holding up.

“Sam,” he says again. “Come on, Sam, back to bed.”

Steve carries him to the bedroom and lays him down, takes away the wet towel and covers him with the blankets.

“You’re safe,” Steve tells him, kissing him gentle. “I’ve got you, Sam. I’ve got you.”

“I know, Steve,” Sam manages, and Steve climbs into bed beside him, holds him tight. “I know I’m yours.”


End file.
